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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205929">pull of you, plucked mellow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephonea/pseuds/persephonea'>persephonea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Time, Gentle Sex, M/M, Magic, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Summer Solstice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:35:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephonea/pseuds/persephonea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier presses three fingers on top of Geralt’s mouth, a barrier of flesh between them, barely there. “I keep thinking, if I let him kiss me, will it be a goodbye?” </p>
<p>Geralt holds Jaskier’s wrist in his hand. </p>
<p>“Off to do the noble thing, I know you, witcher.”</p>
<p>“Then <i>know</i> me.” He lowers down Jaskier’s hand and presses his mouth to Jaskier’s; a firm touch, chaste but bruising, toppling, one to tear the clouds and let the sky drip onto their napes. “How can I be noble...” He drags his lips to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “...When I want you this much?”<br/>--<br/>It starts with a kiss. Then a contract goes wrong and Jaskier ends up with the garkain’s talons sank into his flesh. Geralt doesn’t leave his bedside until the bard comes to, at the eve of midsummer, Kupala Night when the earth herself awakens with a roar.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pull of you, plucked mellow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This one was a real journey, folks.</p>
<p>Thank you so much to <a href="https://janekfan.tumblr.com/">@janekfan</a> who went truly above and beyond and made this little story come alive with the <a href="https://janekfan.tumblr.com/post/623369219737845761/pull-of-you-plucked-mellow">beautiful, magical art pieces</a> that perfectly capture all that sweet midsummer madness.</p>
<p>A huge thank you also to my dear friends Pluto and Bee for lending me their eyes and advice and making this readable, love you!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The anticipation holds the town in a tight grip, a lover’s hand playfully squeezing its throat. It holds its breath, lowly thrumming in an excited whisper. The sun is setting over the wooden rooftops and the town square swarms with folks in freshly washed clothes and plaited hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Colorful ribbons billow from the eaves, tied to the shutters and to the poles raised in the town center. Girls are placing the flower garlands over the gates of their houses while boys with jaunty grins joke about peeking under their skirts. The brooms sweep over their heads and they have to gather the hats off the ground, frantically straightening the precious ruffled feathers. The kids whoop and weave their way fast through the filled streets, a deft hand snatching pastry off the vendor’s table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt feels out of place, as he often does in the midst of a crowd. The familiarity of the feeling keeps him grounded. His armor has seen better days, the shoulder straps need to be replaced. One of the pads got ripped off, almost cost him an entire arm. Sharp talons tore tough leather to shreds like slicing through the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ringing in his ears grows louder when the waft of breeze brings the stench of blood dried on his jacket. The chatter around him is drowned out by an echo of growls and above all, a piercing shriek calling out his name,</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Geralt!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaskier’s voice is drawn high in pain and fear, pulling at Geralt’s abdomen like a fish hook, certain and deadly. The smiling faces around him blur as the memory hits him like a punch, the banging in his temples does not cease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sunshine warming the side of his face fades into a starless night, a chill sneaking close to his bones. He’s standing at the edge of a swamp, the river spills into the forest and creates a mire territory where things go to die. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was supposed to be a quick job. Get there, clean out the nest, kill the monsters that were terrorizing the town. Except, where Geralt expected to find a couple of garkains he finds over a dozen, crawling in their lair like oversized rats. Feral red eyes shine in the humid dark, all focused on the intruder. There is no way to slip in unnoticed, there’s too many of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees the muscles in their legs stretch and contract, getting ready to jump. He breathes out and listens. The claws scratch over the flat stone of half-buried ruins. He knows where the first attack’s coming from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twisting sharply as the creature’s body cuts through the night with a frightful cry, barely touching Geralt, he brings his silver sword forward in a swing. The garkain’s head rolls onto the ground and stops near his feet. Another body charges at him and he crouches down and rolls sideways, casting Aard in the direction of two other jumpers coming in from the left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He works mechanically, pushing his body to twist and turn and land deadly blows. The beasts are dangerous up close, their talons swaying and brushing his armor more times than he’d like. The problem is in their numbers. They’re not so fast as to get the upper hand but the woods seem to spit more of them out for each time he gets rid of one. It must be a joined pack. The summer has been dry and hot and not many travelers dare to cross the mountains. The town is lucky Geralt arrived when he did because the vampires were likely to take more than an old fisherman, caught after the sunset out on Buina. A starved vampire is a reckless force, the pumping of blood nearby driving them into madness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A garkain crashes into his side and throws him off balance just as he’s pulling the sword out of the vampire’s throat. Stumbling, he almost gets buried underneath the mass of rotting muscles and sharp teeth hungry to pierce his skin. There’s too many of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You, fuck! Crawl back—” He lets the beast sink its teeth into the worn leather on his forearm and switches the sword to his left hand. “To hell!” He manages to stab the creature through the nape, its head lolling forward and Geralt’s blade a mere inch from his own face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking the body off him, he stands up and quickly scans his surroundings. The pack is circling him, he feels the foul stench from every direction. He steels himself, taking deep breaths and willing his heart rate to slow down. He can take them. Precise blows with well-timed delivery will do the trick, he just can’t let anything distract—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smells him before he even registers his presence. The sweet scent of Jaskier’s clean skin curls gently in the midst of heavy reek and Geralt’s chest softens momentarily before it clenches with the realization.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dodging the clawed limbs reaching for him, he sprints towards the bard. The creatures regroup behind him but he’s faster, letting them follow after him. Jaskier was supposed to stay back. Geralt pushes his legs to lengthen the steps. He was supposed to be safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voice carries to him through the swamp, the painful inflection makes the Chaos inside the witcher bubble up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Geralt reaches him, Jaskier’s body’s gone limp. The garkain over him has its talons buried in Jaskier’s thigh, dragging him on the ground. Geralt smells the carmine iron of Jaskier’s blood. It sticks to the back of his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his shoulder back, he swings the arm and then throws the sword forward in a straight line. The silver flashes in the dark and pierces the vampire’s skull with a cracking sound. The pack gives an abrupt howl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t let himself look at Jaskier’s face as he tugs the blade free. The night is too loud to hear his pulse. Geralt can’t look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wailing grows hungrier. Gripping the hilt tight, he walks away from the bard to bring death.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The swing of his sword is unforgiving, the dance of his body ruthless. All he can think about is Jaskier being snatched away from him, the light snuffed out in his blue eyes. He moves with the echo of his name on Jaskier’s lips at the forefront of his mind. It’s over before the sun peeks past the horizon to greet a new day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His chest heaves, arms limp at his sides and for the thudding of his heart he can’t hear Jaskier’s. The minutes before he wills it to slow down as he’s crouching next to Jaskier, trying to assess his injuries, are one of the rare moments when he’s painfully aware of the passing of time. Hurtling forward relentlessly, without any regard to the transience of human life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears it then, the weak </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud, thud, thud</span>
  </em>
  <span> delicately dwelling in Jaskier’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, witcher!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A voice cuts through the thick fog of memory and Geralt comes to. The daylight is still bright and his pupils contract, his senses flooded with the sudden input from every direction. His hands clench into fists as he blocks the smell of garkain blood ingrained in his clothes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he thinks of Jaskier’s citrusy scent, healing balms strong and spicy soaking through the bandages. He’s safe for once, just a street down from Geralt, sleeping in the rented inn room, the beating of his heart steady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Looking a little worse for wear.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turns towards the voice and finds a young man, standing in the doorway of a tanner’s shop. His lean forearms raised against the top ledge of the doorframe and a boyish smile tug at the corner of Geralt’s heart. There’s something familiar about the playful way the eyes take all of Geralt in. He doesn’t recoil at the sight of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt cuts straight to the point. “Could you mend it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He receives an even wider grin in response. “Mend it? I can make it look like new! Really, anything for our savior.” The man gestures for him to follow as he clears the entrance and moves further into the shop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher doesn’t grace him with a reply. Mostly because he’s not used to people titling him anything that would suggest other than disgust or reluctance. Jaskier’s ballads have been getting him into situations where he is caught off guard more often than not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Need any assistance?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man’s hands move to help him remove the leather jacket, but Geralt takes a step back before they reach him. The tanner only winks at him as he crosses the room to stand behind the counter. Geralt feels an itch underneath his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know you saved the celebrations. Kupala was bound to be a bloodbath by the looks of it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt shrugs as he unhooks a torn strap. “The pack was starved. Otherwise, they wouldn’t come as close to the town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They would attack if you didn’t take care of them, wouldn’t they?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is possible. The woods would be dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man takes the armor Geralt hands him and doesn’t falter under its weight. “Well, then we’re incredibly lucky you happened to pass your way through here. Most folks would be disappointed if they couldn’t venture into the trees tonight.” He winks again. Geralt frowns at the gesture that is too amicable and too much of a reminder of a certain cordial bard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not like anyone ever finds any magical flowers on the eve of the solstice, anyway,” Geralt grumbles. Despite the myths, people don’t know what to look for and their eyes are blind to the magic of the natural world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We both know that the flower isn’t meant to be the night’s climax,” the man laughs. “If you’re not counting the flower of your lover among magical happenings, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt sighs. This man is wasting his time. “Glad to have cleared the way for your merrymaking.” He takes out the pouch heavy with ducats he received as payment for clearing out the nest. “How much is it gonna be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man seems to consider the question, tapping his forefinger under his bottom lip. “Let’s make you a deal. You leave those coins in your purse and I’ll take care of this out of the goodness of my heart. To express the town’s gratitude for your service.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s the catch?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shopkeeper spreads his arms wide. Geralt wonders what his father will have to say about these dealings. The man is too young to work in the shop alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, the catch. Maybe I’m simply hoping you’ll show up for the bonfire tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt is no stranger to favors, but nobody ever does anything just for his pretty eyes. This turn of events is more than surprising. He’s reminded of that enticing blue gaze again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll have to see if my companion’s feeling any better. He wouldn’t let me live it down if I went without him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier wouldn’t let him live down the fact that he called him his companion either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man raises his brow and clears his throat, shifting on his feet. “Right, the bard in your room. Heard he got the worst of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most of it will heal quickly.” Thankfully. Geralt feels that thawing in his chest, a sense of relief thrumming in his blood. “So, the armor?” He jerks his head towards the jacket on the counter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man snaps his fingers, the spark returning again. “Right. In two days’ time. The shop’s closed tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt nods. Jaskier needs to rest a couple of days before taking off for another town anyway. He turns on his heels and heads outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man calls out for him one more time. “The name’s Pavel, by the way! If your companion isn’t in shape to join you tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Pavel’s persistence could compete with that of the companion in question. “Sure, I’ll keep that mind,” he calls back as he steps out into the square again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, he just stands there, letting the fading rays caress his face. He stands still and listens. The prattle surrounding him doesn’t die down. People aren’t backing away from him. The looks are more on a curious side than hostile. Mothers aren’t trying to hide their children behind their skirts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A ghost of a smile stays on his lips. Maybe it’s a genuine recognition of his deed for the town, maybe it’s Jaskier’s song twining around the Continent. It’s not an unwelcome change of pace. He wishes Jaskier was at his side. He’d understand how rare this occurrence of reprieve was better than anyone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps the overly friendly shopkeeper wasn’t that wrong in his suggestion. Geralt shakes off the memory of Jaskier’s helpless form on the ground clawing in the back of his mind and instead focuses on the pouch with coins in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He considers the street lined with shops and stands put up specifically for the occasion of Kupala, summer solstice festivities—pastry, roasted game, trinkets, jewelry, flower wreaths. The vendors are loudly luring in potential buyers: “Pierniki for your sweet tooth! Flowers to guide you to your lover!” His eyes follow the mismatched parade of flamboyant banners until they stop at an elegant sign at the corner. A winding thread chasing a perky needle. That seems like a good place to start.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stands at the open window, his back turned to Geralt. He’s finally awake, leaning on the windowsill heavily, keeping the weight off his bad leg. He didn’t notice Geralt come in, the noise from the outside concealing Geralt’s light footing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hair catches the fading sun and Geralt thinks about running his fingers through it. He thinks about taking those few steps toward him and kissing him on the mouth; about the contour of his hips shifting under Geralt’s hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers how pink his lips get when they’ve been bitten and pressed up against Geralt’s. Just three days ago, he had him sighing into his mouth, sweet music and devotion. The years came crashing around them with the simplest gesture of Jaskier kissing him goodbye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get back safe,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he said. And that was it. Geralt set off to track down the nest, having Jaskier follow his trail at a safe distance like he always did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he almost lost him without the chance to kiss him back. He’s not going to make the same mistake again. They’ve been dancing around each other for far too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can feel your eyes burning holes into my back,” Jaskier speaks, turning around, his hand straining as it momentarily supports his body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt almost rolls his eyes in question, a mannerism he’s picked up somewhere along the road with the joy of Jaskier’s company. “No, you can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe not. But apparently, you haven’t had a single spare moment today to bathe and I can smell you from here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt takes him in. His thin underclothes sweat through, he’s bruised and beaten, but the bandages on his thigh haven’t been stained with blood again. Geralt feels like sending a quiet prayer of thanks to the gods he doesn’t believe in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to wake you by having a bathtub dragged up here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier has woken up just once since he was brought to the room, at the break of dawn when Geralt pressed a glowing blade into his wound to eliminate any possibility of infection and stop the bleeding. He screamed until he passed out again. After, Geralt hasn’t left his side in two days, reapplying generous coats of healing balms, not caring if he runs low on his next contract.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that was quite an admirable act, really, to abstain from hygiene just to take care of yours truly.” Jaskier’s voice has a thin quality to it and he doesn’t meet Geralt’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t leave you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier bites his bottom lip, his frown deepening. “Yeah, no, I know. Had to make sure I wasn’t gonna just shuffle off this mortal coil first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now it is Geralt’s turn to frown. “Jaskier—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a knock on the door and a tousled head peers through the crack. “We’re ready to draw your bath, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, the bath! See, Geralt, now we’ll be both smelling like two roses in just a moment.” He gestures at the boy to come in. The bathtub is rolled in and soon enough filled with buckets of hot water while Jaskier chats with the lad and laughs when he not so subtly ogles Geralt’s silver sword in the corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hops around on one leg, picking up a garment, or bath salts, a towel. Geralt stands still with his hands pressed tightly to his side. He’s listening to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart. He wishes to feel the warmth of Jaskier’s skin under his fingertips but now the man’s twisting like a trout, slipping from his grip and he’s losing steady ground under his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ehm.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier makes a sound and Geralt’s gaze snaps back to his face. He stopped the fidgeting and stands next to the wooden tub, from which soft steam rises to the ceiling. He’s waiting for something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt tilts his head, considering. He may not know what’s going on with Jaskier’s nervous appearance, but this he knows. It is a routine practiced consistently throughout the years and he’s quite looking forward to having Jaskier’s hands on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods and pulls off the shirt over his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no!” Jaskier exclaims, his face panicked, and he holds out his hand in front of him. “No, I meant to ask you to...” He makes a spinning motion with his wrist. “Turn around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt blinks. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, please and thank you. I’m going to try to wash off this layer of filth. You can have your turn right after.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt moves to the bed and sits down, facing away from him. The confusion at Jaskier’s strange request is halting whatever words stumble to his lips. The water laps gently against the walls as Jaskier settles in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This must’ve looked ghastly,” Jaskier winces, and Geralt knows he’s taken off the cloth wrapped around the wound on his thigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The talons dug deep. But the flesh wasn’t torn too much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They didn’t have time to take a bite out of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They shouldn’t have touched you at all.” Geralt says, his tone harsh, and the sudden wave of anger washes over him—at the monsters, at the possibility of losing Jaskier, at himself for not making sure Jaskier was safe where he left him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t blame them, Geralt, how could anyone resist me?” Jaskier’s response lacks the typical flair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s silent for a while. Geralt hears his blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp, layering soap over the matted hair. “I’m sorry for getting caught,” he whispers then, knowing Geralt will hear him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That wasn’t your fault. You were far enough.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>It was mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier sighs and ducks his head underwater. Geralt counts to fifteen. He surfaces with a deep inhale. “Of course, it wasn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds tired, and Geralt can’t figure out what he’s said in that short while since Jaskier’s been awake that made him act like an unconvincing copy of his usual self.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, come on then, while the water’s still warm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The water splashes as Jaskier gets out and when Geralt turns he has a sheet wrapped around himself, sinking his weight to the right foot, eyes still shifting away. His cheeks are flushed from the bath and Geralt has to order himself not to reach out for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the light package resting against the wall at the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got you something.” He throws the bundle on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stands in the middle of the room, watching Geralt drop his pants and head to the tub. Turning his back to him, Geralt slips into the water. He then raises his hand and moves his wrist in a circular motion as an echo of Jaskier’s gesture. “Didn’t you want to turn around?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard curses somewhat nastily under his breath and shuffles to the bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait for me with your leg. You don’t know which herbs to use.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt closes his eyes, lets the warmth work on his muscles. He decides not to listen to the shy flutter of fabric as Jaskier pulls the package open. There’s a gasp and then Geralt’s ears fill with water, blocking out any other sounds he can only wonder whether the man would make. Jaskier’s scent swirls in the bathtub, mixing with the salts, making the escape a fool’s errand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there’s a way to get the bard out of his head, he hasn’t found it. He makes Geralt feel none the wiser today than when he first stepped on the Path, a boyish glee, a clutter of memories before and after Jaskier, where he is the sun of Geralt’s world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really didn’t have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The interruption catches him off guard, he didn’t realize he almost slipped into meditation while soaking the layers of grime and sweat, slowly turning water less and less clear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Standing up, he shakes the wetness off, pats himself dry with a towel on the chair next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you like it?” He asks without admitting that he knows the contents of Jaskier’s traveling wardrobe well enough to realize that there is indeed a shirt waiting to replace the tattered one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a very fine craftsmanship. You’ll have to guide me to the shop tomorrow, maybe they could take a look at one of my doublets. Spruce it up a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt dresses with his back still turned to Jaskier, tasting the shimmery quality of avoidance shifting in the air between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier is a vision. The glass panes project the sight from both sides, capturing him in the center. A light blue chemise hangs off one shoulder, a deep neckline reveals a suggestive thicket of hair. The hemline cuts off just at his thighs, pale legs on display, pale legs wrapped around Geralt’s waist, his fingers leaving perfect bruises on the underside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s tongue feels like sandpaper pressing against the roof of his mouth. “I got the shade right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier shoots him a look, a question, even though he must see himself in the reflection, he must know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your eyes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The recognition flashes on Jaskier’s face, quick and gone, before Geralt can reach out with a smile. He shuts down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s very kind of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kind.” Geralt repeats, numbly, figuring out the weight of the word lying heavy between his gritted teeth. “Stand there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He retrieves the vial and mortar from the table and moves to Jaskier, each step calculated and determined. Jaskier’s hands grab the windowsill behind him, knuckles turning white. If he feels like he needs to steady himself, Geralt will make it worth his while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold still.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt drops to his knees in front of him. The surprised noise Jaskier makes, his mouth open like a gaping fish, is enough satisfaction to calm the confused tumble inside him. He wants to feel Jaskier’s hand in his hair, wants to be guided to where he can smell Jaskier best, a heady gulp of hot liquor just shy of his nose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s hands unwrap the bandage wound around Jaskier’s thigh and they do not linger, only for a moment, for the warmth of his flesh seeps through into the witcher’s fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crushed comfrey and calendula oil,” he says, rubbing the salve gently along the edge of the wound. “Heals you faster and prevents infection.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew that.” Jaskier frowns down at him, but the redness high on his cheeks betrays the sour expression for what it is—a mask. “Could’ve done it myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And where’s the fun in that?” Geralt finds amusement in the fact that their roles seem reversed now, in this small room, in this small town. “Speaking of fun—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking of fun,” Jaskier imitates his low set voice and breathes out loud, nostrils shaking. “Who are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking of fun,” Geralt continues like he hasn’t been interrupted, “you’ve been out for a while but I’m sure you noticed.” He points his chin to the blue and yellow and red ribbons hanging from the eaves of the house across the street.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh sweet midsummer.” Jaskier nods, his knuckles still bloodless from crushing the wooden ledge in his grip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should go out and join them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What—Witcher, are you bewitched?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer might be too apparent, seeing as Geralt can’t help but follow the line of Jaskier’s nettled mouth, thinking about kissing it pliant and desperate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you go with me?” This time, his hand lingers over the fresh dressing, feeling the muscles shift and tremble under the strain of trying to keep still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” A brief echo, uttered with a dizzy breathlessness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The floor creaks under him as Geralt rises from his knees, holding Jaskier’s gaze, blue like the silky shirt, blue like the field behind Geralt’s childhood home. His hand curls around the curve of Jaskier’s jaw and he can taste him, in the dampness of their mingling lives, in the anticipation that locked the town in its net that night. He leans in, eager to drink the soothing nectar off his lips, and then there’s only a pocket of air in the shape of Jaskier, the bard twisting under his touch and hopping out of the room. He has enough presence of mind to grab the pants on his way out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you downstairs!” Jaskier calls out, and shuts the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Geralt tells the empty room, trying to make sense of the scooped out hollow inside him. He slowly shakes it off, needing the physical gesture to ground himself against the vacillation skirting the line of everything he believed to be true about them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier waits for him, leaning heavily against Roach’s stall, petting the side of the mare’s neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I actually can’t do this without you,” he says, more to Roach than to Geralt, like a secret overheard. “The stairs were a harrowing experience and I think I already sweated through the shirt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt can smell him, sharp and invigorating, sea salt on the tip of his tongue with the sea hundreds of miles away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without saying anything, he offers his arm for Jaskier to lean onto. The bard finally looks at him, a grateful twist of his lips, but the face swept clean, showing no recognition of the kiss left hanging in an interlude.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Geralt understands. Only Destiny knows he’s guilty of suppressing the quickening of his heartbeat, of holding back, carefully piecing together the chipped mirror that held the reflection he was familiar with to avoid seeing himself with cracks which invite vulnerability. He’s wasted too many summers when he should’ve simply reached out and touched. Here, with Jaskier warm next to him, fitting against his side like the worn grip of his sword fits in his palm, there’s no place to hide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me lead the way, then, poet.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sentiment feels silly, fleeting light cascading over the theatrically touched faces, but Geralt knows this dance intimately, so often performed with Jaskier at the helm. He realizes then he wishes to be the one to steal Jaskier’s breath away, cavalierly, so unlike his practiced and efficient moves, advancing into unfamiliar territory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier looks straight ahead, eyes sliding over the excitement in the streets, people in strings winding through the square and onto the fields, the river, the forest. The distance stretches between them, but Jaskier’s hip is pressed up against him, and the point of contact itches. His lips are just a head tilt away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd is loud and no one parts the way for them, Geralt enjoys strangers’ bodies rubbing against his own, he’s one of many. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They don’t care for the Great White Wolf here, do they?” Jaskier has to lean in to speak over the chatter, almost brushing the wetness of his pink mouth over the shell of Geralt’s ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt sneaks one arm around Jaskier’s waist, making the bard yelp and hook his elbow over the back of Geralt’s neck in return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess they don’t.” He likes the prickling under his fingertips where they hug Jaskier’s side. He knew Jaskier would pick up on the way Geralt’s body melts into the anonymity that the town offers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They let the crowd take them through the square and onwards. Geralt shortly stops at the stand with pastries, extended from the facade of the town’s bakery,  guided by the sweet scent wafting over the rising heat of the moving mass around them. The exchange is quick, the vendor passes still warm gingerbread over the counter and Geralt presses it into Jaskier’s hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you found a hidden treasure I don’t know about? You’re throwing coin away rather carelessly.” Jaskier stares at the piernik in his hand, but he licks his lips, clearly not as opposed to it as he makes it out to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just eat it, will you.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know these things make you happy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He feels his cheeks grow warmer at the thought. “It’s hot as in the old hag’s pit in here, let’s move out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air is lighter, the closer they are to the river.  The grassy fields gently slope down to the shore, a strip of pebbles fading into the slow-running current. Buina gets lazy in the middle of the summer, waiting for the mountain ice to let up again and return her to her might.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The breeze dries sweat gathered at Geralt’s temples, hair sticking to his neck, and cools down flushed cheeks. Jaskier sticks to him too, the hollow of his throat glistening, thin fabric damp at his armpits. His hair has grown longer over the past months and it curls impishly outward. Geralt could twirl a strand around his finger and pull.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t been to one of these in ages,” Jaskier says around the mouthful of bread, and Geralt’s eyes are drawn to the layer of sugar dusting his upper lip. He wishes for the lover’s privilege to lean over and kiss the sweetness of his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a while, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their boots sink into the muddy ground, kneaded by the hundreds of feet stomping down the riverbank. Many young people have given up on their shoes, holding them in one hand, letting the mud coat the skin up to the calves. The girls hike up their skirts, tie them in a knot at their hips or stick the hem behind the waistband, thighs caressed by gazes as they wade into the shallows barefoot. The men follow after them, pants rolled up as far as they would go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re all awfully young, aren’t they? The joy of youth, where hast thou gone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier voices what Geralt is thinking. Yet, he feels closer to them than ever before, his own heart foolishly thumping in his chest, like a young thing blooming with an infatuation for the first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do not look a day older, actually. I don’t know what deal you made but it’s a good one.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm.” Jaskier cleans his mouth with a sleeve, and dusts off any crumbs that fell on his shirt. “Must be the witcher presence rubbing off on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun fades at last and the world sets on fire. All along the hill line, meadow by meadow, bonfires light up the horizon above the river. The shouting in exultation carries down to them and those already knee-deep in the current take off the flower wreaths placed on their heads and with an invocation to the goddess of Fate, they let them go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think even one of them reaches the one they’re destined for?” Jaskier watches the town folks send off the flowers floating, some laughing, some looking with longing as the river takes them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since most of these people will marry someone in this very town, I doubt it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s still a nice tradition. Hoping the one for you will be waiting down the stream to catch the token of your love.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A song-worthy tradition, one might say.” Geralt grins at the bard and for once, Jaskier returns the smile freely, as he would any time Geralt makes a joke for Jaskier only. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One might say that. The Flower of Buina longs to be picked by a lover who first wades into her sweet waters, plucked open by his nimble fingers—” Jaskier lilts an easy melody, using his hand to gesture around him in a dramatic sweep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now that’s just lewd.” Geralt pinches Jaskier’s side only to make him giggle and muffle it into Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier’s hair tickles his neck. Geralt breathes in the scent and pockets the moment carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see you two gentlemen don’t have any flowers on you, I’m coming to the rescue.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone clasps Jaskier’s shoulder from behind and Geralt has to plant his feet deeper in the mud to maintain their balance. Geralt recognizes the voice, kind but overly confident.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pavel,” he greets the man that comes up to stand before them, blocking the view of the river. His eyes shine at the received recognition. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad you decided to show up, Witcher. Even though you didn’t come alone.” He directs a bold smile at Jaskier and Geralt feels the bard tense under his arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I almost didn’t make it, but he begged me to go. Threatened to carry me even.” Jaskier’s expression is too polite to be genuine. He squeezes Geralt’s shoulder as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t you dare call me out on this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The more the merrier, isn’t that the way.” Pavel’s face wears the same polite mask as Jaskier, and Geralt feels on edge as if there is an imminent attack coming. His hand itches for his sword.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it’d be unfortunate to miss out on all this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pavel considers Jaskier for a beat, one that makes the hair on Geralt’s arms rise, but whatever he sees, it makes him back away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, would you like to try these, then?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He extends a hand holding a wreath woven out of wildflowers; veronicas, buttercups, pinks, crownvetches, a bright peace offering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt reaches to take it, wishing nothing more than to exit the situation. “It’s nice of you to offer,” he says, but Jaskier’s hand stops him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not fifteen anymore, this trick has an expiry date, I’m afraid.” Jaskier presses his thumb into the dip of Geralt’s shoulder again, a signal to let him know he’s aware of his own contradictions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you not believe in finding a path to your love?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tone does not suggest any mischief behind the young man’s question, but Jaskier’s grip on his shoulder slacks and Geralt hears the pounding of his blood pick up, just as Geralt’s does the same. The bard’s witty tongue clumsily stumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt splays his fingers over Jaskier’s hip, grounding him. “There’s no need for it,” the witcher replies, and fears Jaskier might snap from how tightly wound he feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pavel’s eyes fixate on Geralt’s hand and he slowly places the wreath back on his head. “In that case, I hope you both enjoy the night.” He looks to the lit-up horizon. “Follow the path you wish for in the forest.” A wink, a graceful spin, and then he calls out over his shoulder, “A shame we didn’t get to dance, Witcher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That cockered milk-sucking harlot,” Jaskier lets out once Pavel’s swallowed up by the crowd.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why, I thought he was a polite young man. Very much reminded me of you, with his enthusiasm.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt knows he’s trying to walk on thin ice, still, a desire to see Jaskier’s eyes flash in a summer thunderstorm has always won over reason.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You take that back, you artless beef-witted—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” A flicker of lightning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like to dance?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt counts the number of heartbeats before Jaskier registers the question. Seven. Geralt holds him close, their sides pressed together in the sound of waves breaking on the figures defying the stream, heads thrown back in laughter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s body thrums with nervous energy, his left hand closing and opening, fingers playing invisible chords without any usual decisiveness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would I like to…” He shakes his head. “I guess one more won’t hurt,” Jaskier mumbles, to the side, more to himself than Geralt. “I hope you’re aware I’m mostly out of commission.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I seem to recall I supposedly threatened to carry you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t have time to protest before Geralt bends his knees and hooks an arm under Jaskier’s legs, picking him up. Jaskier’s arms fly around his neck for support. Sweeping the bard off his feet, check.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’re choosing tonight to develop a personality.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier avoids meeting his eyes and his tone lacks the bite. It isn’t like him not to preen at the attention and the gazes directed their way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t it to your liking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I like you just fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher has been reduced to this—a lightness, dawn touching the leaves of grass and making them shiver in its warmth—a smile he doesn’t wish to hide. The clouds gathering in the distance are black locust swarms, aiming to devour, he knows there’s something lurking there; it started with the first touch of lips and gained strength while he kept vigil over Jaskier’s weakened body. But whatever it is Jaskier’s fighting, he’ll carry the sword by his side, because there’s no need to find a path to his love, because Jaskier likes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>just fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt climbs up the slope from the riverside, with Jaskier stiff in his arms, holding onto him. The drums reverberate throughout the planes, the bagpipes carry high above them along with the voices belting out songs to the rhythm of the feet fluttering among the flames. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are drawn inside the mass of people almost instantly. The circle spreads out around the inner edge of the bonfires, placed no more than thirty feet apart, closing the space where the heat builds up and bodies have nowhere to move but towards each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Make way, he’s going in!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone shouts, and then there’s a man flying hawk over the roaring fire, arms spread like he’s taking flight to the starry sky, rising up with the sparks and scattering around the glowing jewels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt can make out Pavel’s silhouette among the jumpers in line, stretching and bouncing on the balls of his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going to put me down?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure try hard to convince me you don’t like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mouth turns downwards. Geralt aches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Keep your arms on me.” Geralt lowers him down with care, and Jaskier totters towards him, leaning his weight into him. Geralt pulls Jaskier flush against him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People around twirl and leap, the song falls over the field like a spell, binds them, blinds them to all senses but touch, they move together as one, as though they want to get inside each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier looks over Geralt’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck. “Can’t pull any moves now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know your moves. This may be for the better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That gets him a snort at least, Jaskier’s face clears for just a moment before the clouds cover it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt leans in to rest his temple against Jaskier’s as they sway back and forth, a temporary truce in the midst of surrounding allure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was so afraid of losing you,” he whispers, barely able to push it out. It is a secret which is not a secret, yet he hides from his heart since the thought of it is a shard of sharp glass wedged between its folds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier tightens his hold, Geralt’s clamped in a vise he doesn’t want to escape. “You are going to, one day. You know that.” His voice is gravel and the shadows cast by the curtain that brings forth undoing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt pulls away to look at him, face licked by the flames flickering about, making his eyes deeper—faraway pools. “What are you saying?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything is loud and Jaskier’s lips are so close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t have kissed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There it is. Jaskier says it like it’s the truth, matter-of-fact, steel pressed against the hollow of one’s throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Geralt raises his hand to Jaskier’s jaw, fingertips flutter over the stubble. “I should’ve kissed you. A long time ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a tired sigh. His forehead touches Geralt’s as he closes his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you holding back now?” Geralt’s done with dancing around. He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Why won’t you let me be yours?” His lips brush against Jaskier’s, sharing a breath, locked in harmony.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels Jaskier shudder under the hand placed on his back. One, two, five, seven beats. Then—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m waiting for you to leave, Geralt.” Almost a kiss. “Every day. Now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, the glass sliding deeper, cutting edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier presses three fingers on top of Geralt’s mouth, a barrier of flesh between them, barely there. “I keep thinking, if I let him kiss me, will it be a goodbye?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt holds Jaskier’s wrist in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Off to do the noble thing, I know you, witcher.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>me.” He lowers down Jaskier’s hand and presses his mouth to Jaskier’s; a firm touch, chaste but bruising, toppling, one to tear the clouds and let the sky drip onto their napes. “How can I be noble...” He drags his lips to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “...When I want you this much?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier laughs, a short cascade of surprised, scattered pearls, feeding them to Geralt. “Sounds fairly vehement.” His voice drops as the pearls keep on spilling, rolling down the hill for Geralt to catch them. “This wasn’t the first time we’ve had a close call and I know we’re both aware of the risks, but I kissed you and I know how you work, I know you’re beating yourself up for what happened, if you’re planning to leave me behind I’ll have to demand you tell me—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grips the side of Jaskier’s neck, thumb lining the arch of his jaw. “Don’t you get it, poet?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re the sun, my Path revolves around you whether it was supposed to or not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I won’t lose you. In any way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One, two, five, seven. “Off to defy the gods, then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s blue eyes are ablaze, the clouds caught fire. Geralt searches them for an ember to kindle the spark, to melt the cracks together. He tastes the ginger on the tip of his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I believe you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier breathes out, a hint of the bard’s bravado imprints rose petals high on his cheeks. He blinks as if just now realizing how intertwined they are. He drops his head on Geralt’s shoulder, trusting him to support him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pull of music is slower now, thrumming just under the surface. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re actually dancing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smiles into Jaskier’s hair, making him scrunch his nose. “Is that what’s going to leave the biggest impression after tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a man of mysterious wants and talents.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt moves the hand on the small of Jaskier’s back lower, lower, finding home in the curve of his ass. “This is what I want.” He slopes his nose down the line of Jaskier’s neck, open mouth where the pulse spikes up, tasting the salty skin on his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hums, low, and then it’s easy to slip his knee between Jaskier’s legs, hoisting him up, as their chests are flush together, and Jaskier slides his hands into Geralt’s hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t know who kisses whom first, but this time it’s neither chaste nor firm. Jaskier sucks on his bottom lip and then his body flares up, Jaskier’s tongue in his mouth, his fingers pulling at his hair, and Jaskier grinds down on him, he feels him everywhere; he’s faintly aware of other people moving around them, his senses blur and all is on the other side of a looking glass, the heat builds up, Jaskier’s moaning into him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking Kupala,” Jaskier pants, and Geralt feels the tension tugging at the back of his neck, a cord pulling him into the heart of the crowd, linking him to the strangers’ frenzied heartbeats, they’re all frantically swaying in a haze, he feels magic crackling at the base of his spine, licking at his heels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s starting. Come on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They weave through the bulk of bodies, sticking together with sweat, drowning in each other, in trance-like movements while the fire locks the circle climbing into ecstasy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stumbling higher up the hill, hanging onto each other, hands wandering, they follow other pairs breaking away from the revelry—the forest calls them into its depths. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The trees rock in their own sort of dance, branches touching by their fingertips, shy and utterly intrepid. They beckon them, dark green canopy lies over their heads like a heavy blanket, promising to keep their secrets safe, seducing them to let down their guards. The place is filled with a giggle and quiet yelps as the pairs play at a slippery chase deeper into its hold. The hands come back empty and women and men make their lovers go after them, breathless, eyes shining like the polished moon nearing its peak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s hands find their way under Jaskier’s shirt, he needs his skin, needs to feel him and know he’s real, that he can dig his fingers into his body and they will leave a dent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I supposed to chase you now?” His teeth graze Jaskier’s earlobe and the bard exposes his throat. Skin, more skin for Geralt to claim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chase me until you catch me and have your way with me.” Jaskier’s throat bobs, and Geralt can’t help but put his mouth on it, swallowing the vibrations of his words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Another nice tradition, hm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With a reward actually within your reach. I won’t get far.” Jaskier pulls on his hair and his exhale comes out shaky as Geralt licks over his Adam’s apple.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could give you a head start,” he says, but he only pulls the man closer, reluctant to let him slip away now, a shimmery dream blending into the excitedly rippling leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not very gentlemanly of me to leave you hot and bothered.” Jaskier’s low voice winds around Geralt like a vine, ineluctable, as he grinds down on him, rubbing his ass on Geralt’s crotch. Geralt would take him right there and then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have no manners to speak off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I resent that.” He peels off from Geralt’s embrace, arms reaching for the nearest tree to support him. “A lover’s chase is about courtship, witcher, be nice to me.” Jaskier wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and pulls on the string holding the front of his shirt together. It falls open and Jaskier’s eyes and his skin are taunting Geralt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve had your fill of my kindness tonight.” Geralt lets darkness into his voice, the edge he knows makes Jaskier shiver. “I think you’d like me to play rough.” He enjoys seeing Jaskier gulp, the heat pools low in his belly, his fingers spasm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier licks his lips and recovers some of his swagger with an ostentatious grin. “Come get me and find out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning on his heel, he disappears into the treeline.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt smiles into the gaps of the dense undergrowth but doesn’t follow him. Not just yet. He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky, constellations different from what he remembers, mixing with the specks of red glowing ash blown into their clean lines, weaving new heroes and stories into the tapestry, even if for just a moment. Somewhere up there, a bard is strumming his lute, with a wolf lying at his feet. Geralt likes to think that after his Path comes to an end, a star will remember this night, remember his heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A giggle trickles down the hillside, more dancers pour upwards. The moonlight guides their steps, the woods are waking up into the night, opening up for the company, eager as if they were waiting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking Kupala, indeed. The whole gist of the midsummer celebrations is to await the sunrise in the most unrestrained and uproarious fashion so as to please the gods with a show of spirit and youth. Dance, get off your face and fuck your way through the night, as Geralt would put it. The poet’s tongue would probably point out the legend promising prosperity, luck, and godlike power to those who follow the quest and dive into the forest searching for a fern flower, blooming only that one midnight of the year; its magic strengthened by the passion equally blooming in the embraces of many who chose to take on the lover’s chase.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t entertain the thought for long, he breathes in, the trail fresh and inviting. His skin stings, sharp pricks focusing his attention. He moves his head side to side, neck cracking satisfyingly. The hunter inside him barely hangs onto the leash. He sets him free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coming, ready or not,” Geralt murmurs and lets the forest swallow him up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As his fingers brush the tree barks, he can feel them vibrating, holding one note, high enough to rapture a part of him that is tuned to the primal magic pulsing in their roots. It rises through the soles of his feet and pushes him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He hears others tramping down the underbrush, plunging through with careless steps, trying to catch up to the one they’re chasing. Jaskier’s scent leads him further, turning to the right, away from the noises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The trees reach higher, span wider. He steps over protruding roots, the ancient oak groans in response, twisted with age, mighty in its height. He continues to follow Jaskier into the oldest part of the forest for about a quarter of an hour, and knows he’s closing in on him. Jaskier must be exhausted by now, Geralt expects to stumble upon him crouching in the shadow any minute, with his leg propped up against the nearest tree.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can smell the salty undertone of sweat on the trail. Mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves. And then—something else. A stench that creeps in, he can’t believe he didn’t notice it before; too focused on tracking Jaskier, he let himself get swaddled in the entrancing atmosphere of the evening. He makes a face and scrunches his nose, momentarily thrown off. It’s mere seconds before he places it, that small moment of not knowing when he’s still that Geralt who danced in the circle of fire with Jaskier, not Geralt who sees monsters where they shouldn’t be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A roar echoes through the woods and it shakes Geralt out of his stillness. He takes off running in its direction, leaping over the knitted forest floor, eyes trained forward and never straying. He thought he took out the whole nest. Did one wander off when he was focused on Jaskier? Jaskier—Geralt feels sick as though his stomach was turning on itself. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>got him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stench grows stronger, it burns in his nostrils. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bad monster,” Jaskier’s shaky voice announces, and then Geralt sees him, propped against the tree but holding a silver dagger, arm stretched in front of him, aimed at the garkain crouching a few meters away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt could kiss him. And he will, right after he deals with the problem at hand. He reaches for his sword but his fingers close around an empty space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He left his swords at the inn. So much for wanting to fit in for the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beast turns to him at the sound and it growls as it gets a whiff of him. Its dark lips curl over long rotten fangs and foam drips to the ground. Its eyes glow with hatred that seems to zero in on Geralt with an almost intelligent focus. The monster’s snout trembles with rapid breaths and the garkain roars again, standing up on its hind legs, stretching to its full height. It’s huge, bigger than the pack Geralt fought at the swamp. An alpha, he realizes. And it followed him here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls to the side just as the garkain leaps. He needs to clear his mind and get a hold of a weapon soon and yet his thoughts are sluggish, stuck on the fact that he missed this—Jaskier making it out alive even though the monster had its claws deep inside him. They didn’t rip him apart because they were waiting for their leader. He barely avoids one talon-adorned limb smacking his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt!” Jaskier yells and Geralt rolls again, away from the deadly blow. “Catch!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A flash of silver slashes through the dark sky and Geralt’s hand grips Jaskier’s dagger, warm from where his fingers pressed into the hilt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have time to thank him because the beast advances and he has to make a run for it. He needs to find a better fighting ground. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Draw it away from Jaskier, don’t let it get close</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There’s a clearing up ahead, he sees an opening in the trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, you ugly bastard! Want a bite?” He stands with his legs wide, tilting his weight forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The alpha exposes its teeth in a semblance of a grotesque grin and charges at him. Geralt waits, steady, until the fangs almost sink into his throat and then he ducks to the side, driving the blade under the garkain’s ribs in an upward strike. Geralt gets a furious howl in response and the garkain flails around, swatting at him as if at a fly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt circles around, spinning, fast on his feet. A beast mad with pain is the most dangerous kind. He can’t keep this dance up for long, he just needs an opening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, corpse-sucker! Was I not good enough for you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier, the absolute idiot, shows up at the edge of the clearing, barely holding himself upright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a brief second, Geralt imagines folding Jaskier over his knee and bringing some color to his pale skin. But the garkain turns his head then, to follow Jaskier’s voice and Geralt uses the moment to jump at it from behind, wrapping his legs around its waist. The monster throws its head back, wailing, trying to shake him off, but Geralt holds on tight. He flips the dagger in his hand and stabs the alpha in the heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eardrums hurt from the piercing shriek the garkain lets out as it staggers backward. Before it crushes him, Geralt flips them over, sidestepping and then slamming his shoulder into its chest, sending the monster on its back, still with the blade buried deep. He twists it more, a circular motion, and the garkain’s eyes almost pop out of its skull, foam mixed with blood squirting out of its mouth. Its limbs go limp at its sides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt crouches over it, breathing hard, fingers not letting go of the dagger. He feels the slimy coating of the monster’s blood dripping down his shirt. The scratches from the claws on his legs and arms burn. The monster’s spread black lips are still smiling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good teamwork.” Jaskier’s feet drag on the ground. He’s panting too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt turns his head and blinks, the droplets of blood clouding his vision. He wipes them away. “You’re mad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier grins. Geralt is on the fence about determining whether it’s brilliant or a grin of an actual madman. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mad.” Geralt shakes his head. “I had it under control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. But I didn’t want it to take up more of our night together.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt prays to whatever deity is listening to give him strength. “I forgot you don’t think with your brain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s the fun in that?” Jaskier actually winks at him and somehow, Geralt feels relief, an exasperated fondness. He’s a creature of habit and the familiarity of Jaskier’s quips, always pushing back, soothes the fearful wound over his heart. He didn’t lose him after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, Geralt.” Jaskier is looking around now, turning his head left and right to take the clearing in. “Where are we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes some effort to take his eyes off Jaskier’s face. The moonlight spills into the dark green pool surrounding them. The entire glade is plush with ferns. And then there are specks of liquid silver, as if drawn out by the gentle beams of light, they peek out from the curled up leaves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to be fucking with me,” Geralt murmurs, but he feels it. He feels the wild thrum of magic shaking him to his core, making his bones quiver. “I guess we found the fern flowers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean the elusive fern flowers blooming only one midnight a year no one we know has ever actually seen? Those fern flowers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Those fern flowers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier laughs and then plops right down into the magical fern, spread eagle. The flowers are opening up around them at a rapid rate, drops of silver paint falling down from the artist’s brush. Geralt finally lets go of the dagger. He gets up, swaying a little from the rush of strength flowing into him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he’s standing over Jaskier, the bard smiling up at him, and he forgets he’s covered in blood with a vampire corpse lying in the grass a few feet from them. The flowers hide the body away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s devouring Jaskier with his eyes, shirt open and skin waiting for his touch. “Do I win then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, technically, you didn’t find me. That thing did.” Jaskier waves his wrist, his expression nonchalant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt watches the pale rise of Jaskier’s throat and feels a growl building in his chest. He clenches his fist. “It could smell me on you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes widen, wrinkles on his forehead gather in creases. “Did it track me because it thought I was you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It tracked you because it thought you were mine.” Geralt’s answer is too quick, a swift cut of the blade, and Jaskier must see through him. “A part of my pack, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier regards him. Another flower blooms right next to his left ear. “I don’t mind that, I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Getting attacked by monsters on the daily?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being yours.” Jaskier smiles again and this time, the moon disappears, flowers blacken, there’s only that pull, an incredible force tying Geralt to the man before him, plucking at the knot in his stomach, mellowing the hard tangles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He yields. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s on his knees, a bloodied hand leaves a smudge on Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier doesn’t recoil from Geralt’s ugliness, he opens up for him, sopping up the blood, the love, like it’s all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can a witcher belong to someone anyway?” Jaskier’s tone is light, long lashes frame bright eyes stuck on Geralt’s lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apparently,” Geralt says and his hands mark up Jaskier’s skin, he can’t pull away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier kisses him, always a pressure against Geralt’s walls, not a wedge but a vine, something alive finding home in his cracks. Geralt pushes back and the knot lets up, it unwinds and anchors itself to Jaskier’s ankle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hands slide down Geralt’s back, under his shirt, around his chest. Geralt feels the quiet glow of the flowers seeping into his exposed skin, filling him up like a chalice until he’s overflowing. Jaskier grabs the back of his thigh, pulling, until Geralt moves his leg over Jaskier’s hips, bracketing him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sucks on Jaskier’s tongue, feeling the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth. Jaskier pants already, hips lifting off the ground and surging up into him. Geralt’s hands are not steady, they shake as he pulls Jaskier’s shirt over his head, throwing it somewhere behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Careful,” Jaskier hisses. “It’s new.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard grins and grabs the hem of Geralt’s shirt in return. He’s not very delicate about it. His hand dips into Geralt’s pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, careful,” Geralt echoes and grabs Jaskier’s wrist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, let me,” Jaskier whines and his hand moves up and down over him, Geralt’s grip going lax. Geralt almost crushes him as Jaskier flicks his wrist, smearing beading precum into his palm and over Geralt’s shaft. He feels like his bones are expanding in his body, growing into the earth below them, like he could hold the weight of the entire sky on his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grinds down on him, into his touch, he can’t help himself and they both moan, swallowing desire as their lips tremble against each other. Geralt bears down again and then Jaskier tenses under him, a small sound escaping him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrambling to break away, Geralt hovers over Jaskier, alleviating the strain so they’re not touching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He feels up Jaskier’s leg but the fabric seems to be dry, the bleeding didn’t start up again. “I told you we have to be—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, screw that! I want you to fuck me, witcher, hard, and you better get to it—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt kisses the indignant line of his mouth, melting it into a sigh. He takes Jaskier’s hand, interlacing their fingers, and then places it against the ground, palm down. The loose soil accepts the offering. “Do you feel that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feel what?” Jaskier’s eyes are a little wild, his lips red like a fresh bruise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The earth is vibrating, sending crackling pulses up their joined hands, soaking up their heartbeats and matching them. There’s a sound underneath, a faint imprint of a wave rising and falling, like sighs rising in a crescendo, overlapping and building up towards a climatic ridge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking Kupala,” Geralt laughs. “Literally.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, splendid! I can check a magical forest orgy off my list.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would have it there.” Geralt captures the soft spot under Jaskier’s chin with his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s arm. “Your eyes, they’re…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s like they’re reflecting moonlight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt raises his brow. “Should I get you a quill and a parchment?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, if you’re going to waste more of our time by not getting into my pants, feel free.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bard arches up suggestively and Geralt has to keep himself from flipping him onto his belly and taking him as Jaskier wishes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gulps, lowering his voice to push the lightheartedness out of it. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s not just your wound, this magic—it’s ancient, powerful, makes it easy to lose oneself to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier touches his fingertips to Geralt’s cheek and that one touch grounds him. Jaskier’s softness is sandpaper, smoothing out Geralt’s storms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t. I’m here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The blooms have fully unfolded, their light attracting fireflies, blinking from one silver cup to another. Geralt’s hands still tremble, blood caked under his fingernails, as he gently strips Jaskier, sweat beading at his hairline. He feels full and so, so hungry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier sings as Geralt kisses up his chest, bites under his collarbone, scratches the soft surface of his throat with the coarse hair around Geralt’s mouth. He buries his fingers into Geralt’s locks, pulling them loose, as Geralt puts his lips on the inside of his thighs, leaving marks there too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In my pocket,” Jaskier gets out between shallow breaths, and Geralt slicks up his fingers, lying at Jaskier’s side on the silken petals molding into his shape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes Jaskier into his mouth, craving to be filled, aching to meld them so tightly they wouldn’t come apart. The forest carries Jaskier’s moans and ties them to a song of cresting voices, reverberating through its roots. Geralt slips into him, caressing the sweetness of him, controlling the tide rising with the increasingly more desperate rolls of his body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Jaskier asks and Geralt can’t deny him, he pulls him close, Jaskier’s back to his chest, two pale stains blending into the blooming glade. Along the long line, skin on skin, they fit into each other with ease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good?” Geralt presses his low sighs into the back of Jaskier’s neck, where his hair curls in the humid air. He grabs Jaskier’s wounded leg under his knee and lifts it up to keep the pressure off it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never better, ah—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier cries out as Geralt uses the new angle to roll his hips into him, finding the fluttering star hidden inside. Geralt feels Jaskier’s pleasure as his own, the night coursing through both of them, making them one. He focuses on the string securing him to Jaskier, the pull of it keeping his love mellow even though he’s falling fast like a crashing sun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s lost in it, lost in Jaskier and the way he’s taken in, unabashed and certain, like there was never any other path, like he deserves this. They move together, almost a touch away from the moon, and then Jaskier calls his name and Geralt follows, spilling over the brim and flowing into him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re veiled with the cover of shadows as the light around them dies down and the flowers droop their heads to hide asleep for another year.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>A chaffinch trills unseen in the nest nearby and Geralt wakes to the sound, limbs stiff and his side warm. He doesn’t even have time to scoff in the bird’s general direction because he rouses into a dream, Jaskier’s mouth inches from his lips, the slope of his nose ending under Geralt’s jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Birds,” Jaskier murmurs, warm breath fanning over Geralt’s neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A pest,” Geralt agrees, stretching under Jaskier, letting his joints crack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sunlight washes over the tops of the trees, filling the clearing with a warm greeting. There’s no trace of the silver gems that popped out of the ground last night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier yawns and rubs his eyes, slowly blinking them open. His smile is quick and pins Geralt down with no effort. “Hey,” the bard says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” the witcher replies, smiling too because it’s easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re looking at each other until the moment curves and Jaskier throws his hand over his eyes, his cheeks flushed pink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is not going to be good for my health,” he exclaims.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt’s own heart is beating way out of its usual rhythm. “You yourself are what’s most dangerous to your health.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier yelps as he tries to rise on his elbows and finds out his bandaged leg fell asleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Case in point.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt helps him sit up, kneeling next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes bug out as he stares at Geralt’s lap and he realizes they’re still naked. Geralt remembers haphazardly covering them with their clothes but not putting them on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what they say is the best way to assure your health and a long life ahead,” Jaskier starts, a small flame dancing under his lashes as he’s already reaching out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can only guess.” Geralt dodges him. “But I’m not finding out now. Come on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands up and offers his hand to Jaskier, who’s trying for a pout now, and Geralt’s afraid he feels his defenses tumbling, the vines sneaking deep into the stone. He bends down and hooks his arms under Jaskier’s knees and around his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gods, stop showing off.” Jaskier holds onto Geralt’s neck, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Going to carry me all the way to the inn?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re light as a kitten.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To show him, Geralt starts down the path, holding the bard safely in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s laughter is bright and floats over the beads of dew glistening on the curled fern. He’s still laughing about their forgotten clothes as Geralt kisses him, drinking the sunlight from his mouth.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/beethkay">@beethkay</a> where i'm usually yelling about fictional characters</p></blockquote></div></div>
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